Whitman and the human condition
by Pillow Bosom
Summary: one-shot. Sometimes they just talk too much.


_Alriighty, so this is just a silly little (?) one-shot I've blatted through while trying to deal with some writer's blockage._

* * *

"You sure you don't want me to sleep on the sofa?"

This was turning out to be the most awkward evening of Helga's life. A few years ago she would have killed to be in this position… and now she just felt like dying. Sitting in Arnold's bed, in her tiny pyjamas. Obviously, tonight hadn't gone to plan.

"For the last time, Football Head, it's fine. If anyone's going to sleep on the sofa, it's me, and I will, if it's just too weird to share a bed with me."

Arnold thought about it, standing at the foot of his bed, still dressed. Helga resisted the urge to pull the sheet up, she felt positively naked in her tank top and light cotton shorts. These PJs were _cute_ , but if she'd known where she was going to end up, she would have packed something with more coverage.

"Nah, I'm cool with it… I just don't want you to feel, I dunno…" He shrugged.

"Just get into bed, Arnold." She rolled her eyes, turning back to the book in her hand.

He hesitated for a second, before grabbing his t-shirt and pulling it up over his head. _Oh lord._ Helga kept her eyes trained on the page, though she wasn't taking any of the words in. There was a jangling as he undid his belt… _undid his belt!_ A _flump_ of cloth as he let his shorts drop to the floor, and a _creak_ as he climbed into bed next to her.

She'd never really stopped liking him… sure, she'd moved on, she'd had boyfriends and everything, whatever she'd felt for Arnold had mellowed enough that she could function around him, and she'd long ago given up hope that he would ever return those feelings… but she was still attracted to him, probably always would be.

Nowadays they were almost friends. Once she'd moved away for college – two years ago – their holiday meetings were far more companionable than they used to be. Culminating in this, an impromptu sleepover. Helga was glad that Phoebe and Gerald had _finally_ hooked up, but it had played a bit of havoc with their sleeping arrangements.

"What are you reading?"

Helga showed him the cover of her book. "Just poetry. I can put it away if you want to turn the light out." She tried not to let her gaze stray from his face, but she was keenly aware of his bare chest, narrowing down to slim hips, with that V shaped groove disappearing under the waistband of his boxers. It was a hot night, the middle of summer. There was only a sheet on the bed, but even with the skylights open, the room was stifling, and the thin cotton was only over their legs. She wondered if he'd be sleeping naked if it wasn't for her…

"Read me something?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. I've always liked poetry best when it's been read out loud."

 _Huh…_ Arnold liked poetry? She never knew. "Alright." She flicked back to the beginning of the book, to a short poem that would be easy to read. She cleared her throat.

* * *

 _The bottle is drunk out by one;_

 _At two, the book is shut;_

 _At three, the lovers lie apart,_

 _Love and its commerce done;_

 _And now the luminous watch-hands_

 _Show after four-o'clock,_

 _Time of night when straying winds_

 _Trouble the dark._

 _And I am sick for want of sleep;_

 _So sick, that I can half-believe_

 _The soundless river pouring from the cave_

 _Is neither strong, nor deep;_

 _Only an image fancied in conceit._

 _I lie and wait for morning, and the birds,_

 _The first steps going down the unswept street,_

 _Voices of girls with scarfs around their heads._

* * *

"Straying winds…" Arnold murmured. "Who's that by?"

She didn't need to check to tell him. "Philip Larkin."

"Nice." He sighed, his hands behind his head. "I like this. Is there anything in that book that's a little less… suicidal?"

She snorted. "It's not suicidal!"

"Well, it's not life-affirming. With the dislocated way he talks about drinking and reading and… sex." Even with his eyes shut, he raised an eyebrow at that. "It's like… he doesn't own the actions that could bring him pleasure, but he's totally identifying with insomnia…"

Helga stared. Since when did Arnold discuss poetry? "Yeah, maybe you're right. But I never read it as suicidal, just… mundane? Like he's stuck in a rut, the same thing every night?"

He nodded. "Read me another?" He cracked an eye open to look at her. "Something happier."

"This isn't really a happy book…" She frowned. Why happy? Why not just beautiful?

"That's a shame." He said simply. "I'm in the mood for something upbeat… like, Cummings, or Whitman maybe."

She had no idea how he even knew those names. Sure, they were the greats, hardly obscure… but the fact that Arnold knew any poets at all threw her. "I know some Whitman." She said before she thought. She waited for his reply, but he just smiled, waiting expectantly. OK, so she was going to recite from memory? Why on earth did this make her nervous?

* * *

 _A glimpse through an interstice caught,_

 _Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated in a corner,_

 _Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,_

 _A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,_

 _There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word._

* * *

He hummed when she finished. A kind of happy, content sound that did funny things to her nerves. His eyes were closed, a sleepy half-smile on his lips. How many times had she dreamed of being here, just like this?

"I've missed you." He sighed, breaking Helga from her saccharine reverie. "Weird, huh? You were the bane of my childhood, but out of everyone who's gone, I think I miss you the most."

"Of course you do." She could feel a wry smile on her face. "How else does one self-identify, if not in comparison to others?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Shortman… I'm your nemesis." She kept talking when he tried to protest. "Yeah, sure, we're not _enemies_ like how we were when we were little, but our ying yang personalities were a huge part of our formative years. You used me as a benchmark against which you measure your own goodness… and now that I'm not here - and you can't use me as the counter-balance to the little angel on your shoulder - you're not that sure of who you are anymore."

He huffed. "Uh, maybe… or maybe I just, you know, like you?"

"Sure, I like you too. But that doesn't mean that your halo hasn't tarnished over the last two years, right? Underage drinking, sleeping with girls and never calling them again… just like a typical teenager." She laughed at the look on his face, "Don't think that just because I'm in a different state, the stream of gossip is any less easy to intercept."

He was frowning. "And you?"

"I'm nicer than I used to be." She smiled broadly at the incredulous face he pulled. "No, really… Think about it. Two years ago, I would have rather slept on the street than here." She gestured to the room. "And I never would have read to you or… or even just hung out like how we have been."

"Maybe you're just growing up."

"Of course… we both are. And part of that is mellowing out from our, uh, kinda extreme childhood personalities… which is easier to do when we aren't always reinforcing them by reacting to each other all the time."

He shook his head. "I must be going crazy… you actually kind of make sense."

"Yup." She nodded. "I know."

He looked at her, his forehead creased in thought as though he'd only just noticed her. "You've been thinking about this, huh?"

"A lot." She confirmed. "I read a lot of philosophy. The human condition, Arnold… we're all so messed up."

He chuckled at that. "And here I thought I was just being nostalgic."

"You are. So am I."

"The human condition?"

"Yup."

He sighed, thinking. "Can I turn the light out?"

She clapped her book shut, tossed it to the floor. The sudden dark made the night seem louder, like the light from his bedside lamp had been keeping the urban sounds of human bustle at bay. She was more aware of the world outside, making Arnold's attic room feel like an island, an oasis in the middle of the city.

They lay for a long time. Helga stared out of the skylight, her arms over her head, watching shadows and reflections shift across the grimy glass. She recalled favourite lines from favourite poems…

 _You are the cat's paw among the silence of midnight goldfish…_

 _Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish…_

 _You will appreciate my reluctance to give you directions…_

 _I am going into the night to find a world of my own…_

Arnold shifted on the mattress next to her, rolling to face her, suddenly closer. She thought momentarily that he must have fallen asleep, but he asked, in a soft, strained voice, "Can I tell you something?"

 _Uh oh,_ that didn't sound good. "Sure, what's up?"

"You might not like it."

That sounded even worse. "Spit it out, Football Head."

"Yeah, OK… can you just hear me out, though? Before damning me?"

"Of course."

"Promise?"

 _Gah_. She rolled her eyes in the darkness. "Yes, Arnoldo… I promise. I'll keep quiet 'til you're done."

"OK. Thanks." He took a deep breath. "So, I've been thinking about this for ages. Years. Ever since we were like, nine? But what you said before about how we react to each other…"

Helga just listened… even if she hadn't promised to be quiet, she didn't think she'd have anything to say. What _was_ this?

"You're right when you say that you were a huge part of my life growing up, and that being around you helped to shape who I am… but not only in the ways that you think. You weren't just my _benchmark for goodness_ , or however you put it… you were also my benchmark for…" he swallowed, suddenly faltering. "I've compared every girl I've been interested in to you. Knowing you has opened my eyes to what is really… to what I find really valuable in a person. I've dated some _awesome_ girls. Funny, smart, opinionated – especially opinionated – and while none of them worked out, I'm still glad I tried. Even if I haven't agreed with what they've said, I totally admire the conviction with how they've expressed their opinions, and I'm not sure – if I hadn't grown up with you – that I'd have the same appreciation for chicks with hutzpah."

He laughed to himself. "God, remember Lila? She was sweet, she really was, and she's going to make someone the perfect little housewife… and more power to her. But that's not the kind of relationship I want, and I think that if I hadn't have had you, bemoaning models, promoting feminism, writing poetry, sticking up for the underdog… if I hadn't have had you, I would eventually end up with a girl like Lila, and my life would be a hell of a lot poorer for it."

He paused, his breath shaking slightly. Helga _itched_ to say something… but she wasn't sure what. His… confession? His confession was a bit all over the place, though highly complimentary. Why did he think she'd take offence to this? She chewed at her lip, waiting for him to continue.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. "And then you started talking about how we react to each other, and how that's changed as we've been growing up…" He paused again, clearly nervous. "I've… My reactions to you changed a long time ago, Helga, and I'm sick of waiting to see if you feel the same way."

She held her breath as his hand reached out to touch just the very tips of his fingers against her ribs.

"Do you like me, Helga? Like…" he chuckled. "Do you _like me_ , like me?"

She lay there, perfectly still, unwilling to believe what she'd just heard. Her world had just tipped up on its end. Her heart was thumping in her chest, a strange band of tension gripped her stomach.

He dropped his fingers from her. "Helga?"

"Yeah… yeah, hold on a minute." She let out the breath she'd been holding in a long, shuddering sigh. "It's… a lot to take in." She whispered.

"I can go sleep downstairs if I've freaked you out." He whispered back.

She shook her head. "No… no, I…" Inhaling through her nose, she scolded herself. _Get a_ grip _, Pataki!_ "You _like_ me?"

"Yeah."

"You like _me_?"

He snorted at that. "Yes, Helga. I like _you_ …"

"And… you want to know if I like you back?"

"Yeah." His voice was soft, kind of sad.

She chewed at the inside of her cheek. What on earth could she even say to this? Rolling over to face him, she tried to ignore 16 years of denial, and finally told him the truth. "I think… I think _like_ might be a bit of an understatement, actually."

They had run out of words. Helga hadn't thought it was possible, but there was nothing more to say. So that when he reached for her, they succumbed to the brutal, human poetry of skin and breath and sensation.

 _There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word._


End file.
